


A Mystical Songstress Takes the Burlesque Stage

by acedtheblondetest



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: ALSO sort of lol, Burlesque AU, F/F, Song fic, fe3hsongweek, sort of lol - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:34:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22621855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acedtheblondetest/pseuds/acedtheblondetest
Summary: For the FE3HSongWeek on Twitter.Dorothea Arnault was told by her ailing mother that she would go on to do great things. But who knew it would be in the world of Burlesque, of all things?
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Petra Macneary
Comments: 10
Kudos: 21





	1. Welcome to Burlesque

**Author's Note:**

> So I know this is super short, but I caught sight of the FE3HSongWeek tag on Twitter later in the day the very day it started so I just. Had to whip this up as fast as I could to get SOMETHING out on time. We’ll see if I can at least get SOMETHING out every day orz

You hold onto the strangest things. Having been thirteen when she passed - Dorothea knew she was supposed to have enough memories of her mother to fill a storage container. But whether due to the life that followed her after, or the trauma of losing her only known parent so young, she thought such easily recalled moments took up the space of… maybe more like a lunch box.

A quarter of which were her mom’s last words. “You’re meant for places better than this gutter I’m leaving you in.”

What a way to start a story, huh? But - and this much Dorothea knew - it is the amount of drama required for the place that she  _ did _ end up, whether her mother knew that at the time or not.

Dorothea had always been a beautiful child. Could even be well-behaved, well-spoken, well-liked, all those sorts of proper  _ well’s  _ when her heart desired and was not taken over by that ‘petulantly sassy attitude’ one of the care workers always described it as. Despite this she did manage to land herself in a very decent foster home by the time she was 15 - a feat in and of itself with how hard it is to place teenagers.

The Patterson’s were nice enough folks. Sweet, in their mid-50s by the time they brought Dorothea into their already bursting at the seams household of seven foster kids. As supportive as they always were, attending every school recital, allowing her to stay even after she turned eighteen so she could work and save whatever was left after voice lessons, she did not have the heart to ask for any help towards her true dream. Not the safe one they always sweetly spoke of to her at a bustling dinner table. Not the seemingly easy one of going to school to be a music teacher.

No. The night of her twenty first birthday Dorothea wrote a note, taped it on the inside of the front door, bribed her room-mate Georgiana with her CD player, and walked out the door with her meager life’s savings in her pocket.

Dorothea was going to Enbarr. She wasn’t going to teach music - she was going to  _ own _ a stage somewhere.

Only for all of her gusto, all of the belief born from complimentary teachers and a dead mother -  _ that was three weeks ago. _

“Do you have a demo to give me?”

“Well, no, but I could sing right n-“

“I don’t have any openings for backup vocals at the moment. Leave your number and name at the front desk.”

“Have anything on Spotify or YouTube?”

“I never really had the equipment for-“

“Too bad.”

Was she going to turn into what everyone always says happens in… every single daytime comedy show? Was she going to have to pick up a waitressing job to continue being able to, say, eat and have a warm place to sleep? Was Dorothea going to be  _ that _ role? Never had she been so pie in the sky dreamer as to think that was impossible. Dorothea was far too realistic than that. But - some part of her had still…  _ hoped _ for at least doing something backstage somewhere… of course she had no official training in hair and makeup, but was her own appearance every damn day going out on the job search despite low funds reference of her skills enough?

It was getting late, the sun falling below the rooftops and casting orange shadows all about the sidewalks before her. Up ahead was a coffee shop that - at least had a cute atmosphere. Maybe she wouldn’t mind working some place like that… just until she found something…

But what was that reflected in the shop’s windows?

As if to perfectly showcase the diverging paths in life, just like that Robert Frost poem she remembered from school, on the other side of the street from where she had been walking… was a tall, three-story building of red-brick. The lights were coming from a sort of entrance walkway, letters alighting the top in curved text in red and yellow blinking lights that read ‘Burlesque Lounge.’

Images of old photographs flitted through her mind. Women in flapper dresses and headbands kicking up their fishnet stocking legs. Old Western outfits with lingerie type additions while some guy plays at an old piano. Despite this conflicting and, really not wholly appearing, concepts Dorothea felt herself drawn across the street and through that gate.

The sound proofing on this place was killer. It was the first thought she had when she opened the heavy door and entered, her senses suddenly taken over by the beginning beat to a song. It was darkly lit much like any old bar, but around the corner she could see the colorful cast of what could be stage light.

Only there was one thing in her way. “Thirty dollar entrance fee.”

If she did not have such a good history of controlling her reactions Dorothea might have audibly choked. “Thirty dollars? For a strip club?”

The doorman at his little host pedestal snickered, his nose crinkling up in the action so that his lining of freckles elongated briefly. He took off his black - … was that a  _ bowler hat? _ \- and scratched at pale hair, “I can’t say that isn’t the first time someone’s thought that. But - no. I promise you we’re not a strip club. For thirty bucks you can see the difference for yourself though.”

Dorothea had to bite at her bottom lip, a sort of physical manifestation of the guilt she felt overwhelming her eyeing the mere forty dollars left in her wallet. It would be ramen  _ at best _ after this… but… with a deep, centering breath she handed over most of the last of her money…

And stepped into a world unlike anything her pitiful small town drama department could have ever shown her.

The large room consisted of three main parts. At the back was the bar, a broad wooden thing with three people all in black and white servicing the dozens of patrons crowding them, with everything reflected back behind them in antique looking counter to ceiling mirrors. Then were the tables, all mostly small, round affairs with a few booths in shadow shrouded corners. And then… the stage.

Women of varying ages and types were gently bending and moving to the slowly rising beat of the song. While their outfits were revealing - they were nothing close to strip club type uniform. As she began to take note of the difference to the costumes, noting that none were exactly alike as most would be in a chorus line type of group, another woman stepped into the middle of the small crowd on the stage. She was older but had far more of a presence, her shoulder length light brown hair heavily curled beneath a sort of sailor’s hat. The way her legs looked on near full view in tights and a black unitard, with the neckline dipping dangerously low between her breasts… Dorothea could only hope to look half as good when she got older.

Or  _ sound _ as good. When the woman opened her mouth - the amount of presence she commanded in that room increased tenfold.

“ _ Show a little more… _ ”

* * *

“May I get you a drink?”

Dorothea nearly jumped out of her shoes. She had been so pulled into the number on the stage it came to a shock when someone spoke just behind her. In turning she found the speaker to be a women about her own age behind the bar. She wore a white tank top that nearly glowed in the low lighting, with black suspenders accenting her bust to match the small black bowler hat pinned neatly atop her head. It was situated at just the right angle to allow room for her high braid of magenta hair.

“I’m sorry?” Dorothea said dumbly. Between the show she had just witnessed and the eleven out of ten gorgeousness to this woman she was surprised she could speak at all so soon after.

But the woman did not seem to mind. She smiled, shook her head. “Apologies. Would you like a drink?” Her voice was smooth, confident, accented.

Ah. Of course. Dorothea had been standing right in front of the bar after all. She laughed and tucked some hair behind her ear - a nervous habit she had ironically picked up after learning it often made people more endeared towards her perceived shyness. However long she could keep up that act - which was normally not long at all. “If you’re buying.”

The woman tilted her head, some light catching at a tan cheek with a red semi-circle. Then after the moment of consideration she was smiling again and sliding a drink towards Dorothea. “I am Petra. Welcome to the Burlesque Lounge.”


	2. Ray of Light

“That’s very kind of you,” Dorothea smiled, something far more genuine than the nervous girl act she had worn just before. She took the glass and only half turned her body away so that she may look at the stage - while not fully leaving the conversation with this gorgeous bartender.

The next set was beginning. The rise of the curtain revealed all of the women to have been replaced by men in equally revealing clothing. Music began - and they too started dancing through well trained, well timed choreography not just any troupe could boast of. Dorothea let out a wistful sigh.

“How can a girl get herself up there?” She asked, turning back to Petra. And if she turned on the big eyes and the long, fluttering lashes then it was for more reason than one. “Namely, a girl called Dorothea that just walked in.”

Score. Petra laughed, enough of a chuckle that she paused in her motions of drying a glass with a burgundy towel. “Are you, how do they say, ‘asking for a friend?’” Then she paused, her eyes turning up and to the side in legitimate consideration. The fact that she did not answer readily was not a hugely promising sign, but that she thought about it at all held some hope. “You must go to the back, there is a door to the right of the stage. Go up the stairs and ask for Manuela. Tell her you have spoken with Petra.”

“Thank you, Petra.” It was not an in by the extreme definition of the word, but a bartending employee was a better name to drop than none at all. The rest of this little negotiation was in Dorothea’s hands. Hands which swung back the last of her free drink - even the most confident of girls could sometimes a little liquid courage - and then gave Petra a grateful wave.

Under the commotion of applause for the end of the men’s song Dorothea slipped through the dark door Petra had mentioned. There was little landing behind before began the climb of a spiral staircase with peeling black paint. Even from the bottom of the stairs she could hear the sounds that were not unknown to anyone who has ever participated in the theater. Giddy adrenaline-fueled laughter, complaints about sore feet, questions about the schedule. By the time she had reached the top the men had come off stage and their lower baritones joined the ruckus.

“Lorenz, you were trying to force out the others and hog the spotlight again. We’ve talked about this.”

“It is not  _ my fault _ if Claude-“

A warm laugh with  _ juuust _ a hint of an edge. “If Claude what?”

Through all of the rushing bodies and bright vanity bulbs it took a moment for Dorothea to find the source of this very specific conversation. They were at a small landing just to the side of the stairs, explaining why she was able to hear it so well.

The first she recognized was the lead singer from the first song, now minus her hat to instead scratch at her head of fast falling curls. She was irritated, or perhaps just tired, of the bickering between the two men surrounding her. One had an increasingly angular, asymmetrical cut of purple hair while the other was even darker than Petra and sporting a fine line of dark growth along his jawline.

“Manuela, I simply  _ cannot _ control-“

“Manuela?” Dorothea repeated. It may have been a long shot to interrupt an argument waiting to blow… or it may shift things away in time before she lost the opportunity to someone storming off mad.

However it turned out, in her favor or no, all three turned to her the moment she spoke. Hell, even a few others in the room did. Some of those at nearby makeup tables stopping in their eye and lip liner alterations to peer curiously at some strange girl that had seemed to appear in their dressing room. If there was any doubt of Manuela being the boss it was immediately blown away when with a single wave of her hand both of the male dancers walked away and those that had turned to watch lost all interest. “What are you doing up here? Do I know you? Tell me you’re not a girl I promised a spot to while I was drunk.”

“As nice as it might be to pull that card,” Dorothea said only half under her breath, “no, we haven’t met before. I said I was looking for a job and Petra said you were the one to speak with.”

“Petra? Why in the world would she send someone-ugh, I have to get changed, walk with me.” Past rows of vanities and racks of costumes they clacked together in a pair of pumps and kitten heels respectiely. Dorothea was pretty sure she inhaled more hairspray in those twenty or so steps to Manuela’s office than she had at any other point in her life.

In another wave of her hand Manuela gestured for Dorothea to close the office door behind them and, without even stopping to see if her wordless direction had been followed, stepped behind a folding screen. “So where have you performed?”

Dorothea felt herself stand to attention a bit more quickly and… admittedly - awkwardly than she would have liked. “I was part of my school’s troupe and had lead in-“

“Anywhere  _ commercial _ ?” Manuela clarified with a tossing of tights over the top of the opaque screen.

“Well, no… but I did take years of-“

“Manuela, are you ready?” A man Dorothea had not yet seen opened the door beside her and poked his head in. While he wore a broad smile there was a tiny twinge to the corner of his mouth into the brown beard that alluded to a level of urgency.

“Yes, yes,” the pale disembodied hand shook some kind of pink, glitter lined feather boa at the man around the screen, “keep your panties on. Take this girl’s number and keep it on file for the next time we have auditions.”

“And when would those be?” Dorothea was ninety percent certain she heard herself ask, but apparently no one else did. Because in a matter of what must have been fifty seconds Manuela strode out past her in a completely different ensemble asking the man questions about timing.

Leaving Dorothea alone and without anymore  _ real _ prospects than when she first stepped foot into that place. Had that woman even  _ looked _ at her, just once? Was Dorothea Arnault practically ignored and put away as a ‘maybe but probably not’ without so much as a  _ glance? _

No. No she was not going to allow that to pass. Her pride would not allow  _ quite _ that much. She was going to storm out and - waiting for a time that would not clearly effect the current show because she was not some kind of  _ heathen  _ \- and demand she be given an opportunity to-

“I’m sorry, what was your name?” In all of her fury Dorothea had to rock back onto her back heel a bit precariously to not get a face full of the returning man’s chest. “My name is Alois. I’m Manuela’s stage manager, handyman, and probably about a million other things.” Either the need for urgency had passed or this Alois was an easy enough going fellow to let it pass him by so quickly, he laughed so amusedly at his own joke.

“Dorothea…” She started slowly, having to regain her steam after the unexpected pause to her tirade. With a quick shake of her head and rising of her shoulders however she catapulted herself right on into it. (Well, with a bit more grace than  _ catapulting, _ one can hope.) “Dorothea Arnault. But-! Can you tell me when the next auditions will be? I really,  _ really _ need a job and I promise I can keep up. None of them were with groups outside of school or small home contests, but I can get you a list of the shows I have-“

Something in Alois’ smile faltered and he began to bring up his hands in a calming manner. “Miss Arnault-“

“Will you people  _ stop interrupting me? _ ”

He had not expected that. Alois’ brown eyes widened, his whole head leaning back on his neck a smidge in a look that would be comical was Dorothea not so annoyed and… a bit desperate. A look in her eyes that Alois did at that moment begin to pick up on, catching sight of it, released a sigh and looked away from. He scratched at the bag of his neck as he pondered. “It won’t be on stage-“

It felt like some thread was being cast in her direction. Not a ladder, not a rope, but  _ something.  _ “If it means getting my foot in the door here, I’m willing to take anything at this point.”

And there it was. His tone raised a note or two. “In that case… have you ever done any waitressing?”

“Yes.” Did a part in a play count? It was better than nothing.

A returned grin and a now offered out handshake. “You have yourself a job, Dorothea.”

* * *

As it turned out playing the part of a waitress did not a full service staff member make. But from years of memorizing lines and dodging through rambunctious foster children if there was one thing Dorothea had besides yet to be discovered talent it was  _ grit _ and the ability to learn on the spot. She would spend her evenings into the early morn working the many tables of the Burlesque loung and her days studying the history of burlesque. In her hotel room she would go through endless repetitions of every single number she watched cross that stage and soaked up like a sponge.

Although her work that was simultaneous with her study of the dances did not allow her much if any extra time while on the premises, Dorothea did begin to develop buds of relationships with a few of the people there. She had a feeling based on the accent, a feeling which was found to be correct when she learned that Petra was from Brigid. The woman, feeling like she was almost responsible for Dorothea as her first contact, took it upon herself to explain as much as she could about the Burlesque Lounge.

There was Leonnie, a no nonsense redhead, as the other bartender. Ignatz, a small man with round glasses and a pale bowl cut, the sound and light manager. Ashe, the doorman and occasional acting member when it did not involve dancing or singing. Some of the performers were friendly and spoke to her when she brought them their drinks. Hilda, a dancer and singer with pink hair, was a close friend of Claude’s and constant source of both amusement and exasperation because of a lazy attitude. Lorenz seemed at least halfway interested and would ask questions about her past roles once he heard she had taken part in theater. At one point they even got into an… interesting discussion about Hamlet. Kronya, a dancer with deep red hair and a petite frame, had a strange manner of seeming peppy one moment and wearing an increasingly disgusted scowl in her direction the next. Disconcerting for sure but - not wholly a new experience in Dorothea’s life. What were the performing arts without drama, after all?

And then, a month and a half following her first entering the lounge, the drama seeped outside of it.

“What am I supposed to do?” It was before opening, and Dorothea was holding an unfolded sheet of paper at the bar.

“Has something happened?” Petra asked. The woman stopped in her movements of lining dried glasses on the counter before her to lean closer to Dorothea on the other side.

In one fluid motion Dorothea bent her head back to let out the full body sigh and slide the paper across the smooth wood at Petra. “You know how I told you there were was a stain starting in my ceiling? It got worse and… well the whole place is shutting down for at least a month for repairs. Apparently there’s mold somewhere so they can’t even put me in a different room.”

Sure she was now making money, but between a waitress’ wage and tips it was barely enough to keep her in that third rate hotel as well as fed. There weren’t really any other places within decent distance of the lounge that were also in her price range. Maybe if she cut back on-

“Would you like to stay with me?”

“Huh?” Voices that were her own and other adults throughout her life, telling her how unladylike that sound was, filled Dorothea’s ears only for a split second before they were drowned out by her stunned silence.

But Petra remained unphased. With one more nod of understanding she set down the letter that she had been reading. “You can stay with me. I have an apartment. It is small - but it is nearby enough, and I have an okay sofa to sleep on.”

Almost like she had been in a tunnel, with small dots of fluorescent light passing her by that illuminated it’s walls but not much else, Dorothea suddenly felt the shift on her face. As if she may be coming out the other side. Or could see it appearing before her in the near distance. “Petra, do you mean that?”

Suddenly nervous under such surprise and wonder, Petra cast her gaze away. “If you stay longer than a month I will have to ask for some moneys to help with the increase in water and electric, but-“

“Of course! Thank you, thank you so much!” Over an expanse of wood and lined glasses that were presently pressed between their bodies Dorothea reached to wrap her arms around Petra’s neck in a hug.

* * *

“Are you serious? I mean one hundred percent truth, no possibility of error here…”

Was that Claude? Manuela did not think he often went to the roof. She would know for sure as it was her favorite place to go before the start of a long night. A cold blast of air in her face was one of the better, healthier tactics at waking her up.

“No, no, I really appreciate you letting me know. Would you mind if I called you back by Wednesday, though? I know that’s asking a lot, but…”

What could he be talking about? By the time she came round to the side of the roof she heard his voice from Manuela found Clause leaning back against the elbow length brick safety wall, hanging up his phone. Always one to sport a poker face that was just about the best she had ever seen, Claude did not appear entirely surprised to see Manuela appear then. “Ah, Manuela. It’s fitting and really helpful that you’re here after that.”

Interesting. She rested her elbow on the wall beside him, leaning against it to watch him with her hand shielding the side of her eye from the setting sun. “Your phone call, you mean?”

“That was one of the doctors I’ve met with. He said he had an opening come up…” For all of his poker skills - Manuela could believe the sudden smile Claude wore, slow, elated, shy almost, was one of the most genuine she had seen from him. “I can finally have my top surgery.”

Manuela could feel her eyebrows shoot up her forehead. “Claude, that is wonderful! Congratulations.” Is this what a mother would feel in this moment? Pride, joy? Saints she had worked so hard on not allowing herself to call her feelings towards her dancers  _ motherly. _ That was entirely too sobering.

Claude nodded along, a bit breathy in his excitement. “I will have to take a while off, and that might mean I won’t have a job-“

Oh honestly? “Claude, dear, don’t be absurd. Of course you will have a job. You are one of my best performers.”

How that boy’s face opened up. Was he really so relieved? It was disheartening to think he could have thought otherwise. “Aw, you really do like me.” His phone had begun to go off incessantly with alert chimes. He laughed when she gestured for him to answer. “I was texting Dimitri and Hilda while I was on the phone. They said I’ll have everything they can do for me and more through it all. And uh - well, no surprise, Hilda says to tell you she’ll be taking the same time off to spend with me.”

Of course. “Honestly, it’s as if she doesn’t realize you’ll want to be pampered entirely by your rich boyfriend. That girl.” The dark fog of worry began to creep along the edges of Manuela’s mind, the reality of losing two of her performers at once for… at least a month. She would hear no less, and would not be surprised to hear it would need to be longer. Just one she could have managed without, but a missing cog in her men’s, women’s, and mixed routines? “I mean it, you will have your job waiting for you the moment you are cleared to start up again.  _ I suppose _ Hilda will as well. But in the mean time I may have to find a few extra feet and lungs…”

It was a silly thought at her age and experience. Maybe the giddiness at Claude’s news was dredging up some latent alcohol effects on her brain. But when half of Claude’s face was lit bright orange and red by the sudden final, brilliant cast of the setting sun through the rooftops… Manuela hoped it was a sign that everything would turn out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I FINISHED AT 11:58 SO IT TOTALLY STILL COUNTS!
> 
> This is the first time that I am writing a trans character so if there is anything misrepresented or negative about my doing so please let me know.
> 
> I always really enjoyed the montage in the movie Burlesque with this Madonna song. I enjoy upbeat songs in general, and it just made me feel excited and hopeful for life I guess? It’s just a neat little part that I wanted to allude to if only a little while... also rushing to write this chapter even more than the last one to make the time lol.


	3. You Haven’t Seen the Last of Me

At least her body kept it interesting.

Waking up and choosing different things each morning to be the first part of the hangover to hit her.

This morning it chose to be the light sensitivity alongside the raging headache. Manuela is suddenly aware of the sun pouring through her bedroom window and casting light on her face. Did she open that window when she came in last night, sometime in her sleep, or had she left it open from the day before? Who knew. All she knew was her mouth and the entire side of her face was sticking to something delightfully cool to the skin.

Something that stuck to her cheek when she made herself sit up and pull it off. “What in the-?” She mumbled, voice hoarse with sleep as she tried to focus her eyes on the stark black, typed lines littering the sheet of paper.

“Notice from the Bank of…” Ah hell, it was the notice about her late mortgage payment on the club. She had showed it to Alois in hopes he could explain the legal jargon to her and, when he could not, she had gone shopping for wine… or was it tequila?

Maybe Petra could take a look at it… that girl had said she had a degree in her home country of Brigid, something she had a difficult time finding someone to honor here. What was it in though…

“Well shit, is that really the time?” As if to answer in the affirmative the clock on her tissue ridden bedside table suddenly began to blare loudly for her to start the day.

Unfortunately it  _ ended _ it’s day in pieces across the room. And when Manuela finally brought herself to stand and walk into her bathroom to start washing up… the reflection in her mirror did not look much better than her alarm clock. Her hair was plastered to the side of her face she had been sleeping on while the rest was wild and probably terribly knotted at the back. She had not washed off her makeup, leaving a garish red smear of lipstick across her mouth and cheek.

For a moment Manuela gripped either side of her sink and stared at that face in the mirror. She looked tired, haggard, and not attractive in the least. But really, how was it much different than most of her mornings anymore? What an almost-promising thought.

“Here we go again,” she snickered. Then she straightened herself up, threw her shoulders back, and started the shower.

* * *

Two and a half hours later Manuela was heel-tapping along the sidewalk to her club donning her best white-rimmed sunglasses and a cardboard carrier of her coffee order times four. There was Raphael, bless him, with the black security shirt that always stretched dangerously across his broad frame. But why would Raphael be out front so early? There wouldn’t be anyone-ah.

“Mr. Arnold,” Manuela sighed, placing her sunglasses at the top of her head so she could give the man her full attention.

“Manuela,” he greeted, bringing up a smile as if he were greeting a second cousin at a wedding. Friendly, knowing, but not familiar enough to warrant the hug he was obviously going in for before Raphael placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Now that you’re here, would you please tell your man to let me in so that we can talk?”

Manuela took one long look up and down that man, mouth drawn to one side as if she was appraising a sub-par horse at the races. Dark brown hair, peppered at his temples and into his trim beard. Pressed blue suit and - were those custom shoes? Damn, that was money. “Let him in Raphael. Promise I’ll call if I need you, dear.”

“I would offer you some coffee, but it’s all downstairs and… well, my coffee tends to be a bit strong.” Manuela said as they entered her office. Mr. Arnold closed the door behind them while her purse and coffees were unloaded onto the old, broad desk. If she placed her large bag over a mound of notices from the bank and electric company then hopefully it was discrete enough that this grinning shark did not notice.

Mr. Arnold settled himself into the worn pink, high back chair across from her desk. “I appreciate the thought, but I am fine Manuela. I have an espresso at home every morning.”

Of course he does. Manuela turned to hide the rolling of her eyes in the movement to pull back her office chair before she seated herself in it. “What can I do for you, Mr. Arnold?”

“You’ve been dodging my calls for weeks,” he began, head tilting back in a way that made his deep set eyes shadow over. It made the juxtaposition of his big white teeth even more unpleasant. “And there’s always some reason you cannot meet with me during your… business hours.”

“It’s called being busy, sir,” Manuela hummed, tapping a manicured nail against her desktop. It was the only way she could fight furrowing her brows in frustration. She had a feeling where that particular statement was going…

“But are you really that busy? I haven’t seen people lined up down the sidewalk like they used to in… well, maybe years now.” And there went her brows. But the man did not take notice - or he did not care, and only continued. “This area is not what it used to be. There are less nearby bars for your lights to pull in anyone out with an existing buzz. Barely any of the kids these days have even heard of burlesque. And don’t think I haven’t noticed some of the needed repairs to this place that you… continue to put off.”

“If this is your attempt at patting my shoulder with one hand and stabbing me in the back with the other - just know that I already see your game.” It was perhaps less feminine to do so, but Manuela felt more powerful when she leaned back into her chair then. When she too could look down her nose at this cockroach she had just allowed into her place of business. “I’m not so stupid as to not read up on the man that’s been pestering me this long. Gregory Arnold, real estate and building tycoon. With all of these shops and boutiques popping up you want to pull on the well to do crowd coming here. But why would that affect me? It’s the only thing I cannot figure out. My plot is not large enough for any substantial-“

“I purchased the dying strip mall across the way.” Mr. Arnold answered, no longer wearing his facade of a friendly smile. “I’m going to build luxury condos - and the sorts of people that I hope to move in will not want some garish light show keeping them up at odd hours just across the street.”

“Garish light show?!” If it weren’t for the roaring in her ears Manuela may have jumped from the loud BANG her chair made against the wall when she stood so suddenly. “Get out. You are not welcome on my property.”

Mr. Arnold’s continued calm demeanor in the face of her outrage only made the red in her eyes encroach even further. “This is not the last you will be seeing of me, Manuela. Why delay the inevitable?”

“Yes, it is the last. Every single one of my employees will know to refuse you entrance.” The frosted glass panes of her office door creaked menacingly when she threw it open. “Out.”

“These walls will crumble around you for the sake of your pride, Manuela.” He said, giving her one last look as he passed her by. It was a look of the inevitability he spoke of. As if he was looking at a dying animal.

Just as she did every morning - Manuela threw her shoulders back in defiance. “I was built tough. I will hold them up with my bare hands if I have to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this finished on time for day 3 of the week but - maybe because of some bad weather my connection would not hold up enough to get it posted ):
> 
> I have this song of Cher’s from the movie on my HAPPY playlist because honestly... it is just so GOOD. Such a ‘I will keep standing, f*** every single one of you that has pushed me down before’ type of song. Plus? Cher has such an awesome voice.


	4. Something’s Got a Hold on Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No offense to Christina, but DANG is the Etta James version of this one so iconic.

Dorothea did not quite know what she had expected. When the concept of ‘Petra’s place’ was first introduced to her mind the images were vague. Clean kitchen, something she could gather by Petra’s work ethic as a bartender. Many pillows and lived in pieces of furniture, a further case of assuming when Dorothea took note of the sorts of shoes Petra wore. Well made if a bit faded, and choosing comfort over fashion but only by a small margin. As Petra only ever wore her ‘uniform’ there was little Dorothea could really pull from in terms of her style. The same could be said about the woman’s home.

Petra’s apartment was small even by most big city standards that Dorothea knew of from her own cursory online searches. It could barely be called more than a studio by how tiny Petra’s bedroom and bathroom were, leaving most of the square footage - what there was of it - to be taken up by the living area. Fortunately she had little in the way of clutter, something that could easily make a small living space feel claustrophobic. Utilitarian came to mind. In the sense that she had the right amount of furniture but nothing to excess and not a single decoration of any kind that Petra could see when she first entered. Bare walls, the provided simple blinds over the windows, and bland white or gray dish clothes. The kind you could get in bulk for cheap.

“I know it is not much,” Petra began, turning to close and lock the door behind them. “There is a pillow and blankets on the sofa for you. I must do the shopping so there is not many things in the refrigerator - but you are welcome to using what there is.”

“Petra you are already being far too kind, do not worry a single strand of pretty hair on your head.” Dorothea declared as she seated herself on the sofa. It gave way beneath her weight just the right amount. She would be perfectly fine sleeping on it for a time.

And yet still the girl appeared unsure. She stood before her closed entry, her small bowler hat set onto some simple hooks in the wall beside her keys, and would not meet Dorothea’s eyes. “I hope it does not - bothering you, Dorothea, but I like to leave my bedroom door open when I sleep. I do not snore - at least I do not think that I snore.”

Was she nervous about something like that, truly? Dorothea took a breath and settled herself into the cushion a bit further, clasping her hands together in her lap and closing her eyes for a moment. Considering the kindness she had shown to her and for the realistic reasons of living together however briefly she had known Petra would likely be the first person she would tell. “I don’t particularly care about hiding it or anything, because it is what it is. I just haven’t told anyone since I’ve come to this city because… well, because I guess it’s never came up. And maybe a small part of me was glad of not being known  _ by _ it like I was before.”

Dorothea opened her eyes and turned her gaze. Petra was watching her, intently. In the small pause she took the time to sit at one of the two chairs at her little table against the wall opposite the sofa. Dorothea continued. “I am an orphan, a foster kid. I am pretty lucky that I did eventually end up in one decent home for my last years in the system, but - I have had to live with all sorts of people, all sorts of other kids with all their own little eccentricities and habits.”

Her point, where was her point in all of this… Dorothea gestured just a tad awkwardly with her hand to convey that she was trying to wrap the subject up. “What I am trying to say is unless you trim your toenails and eat them in front of me, I cannot imagine there is much you could do that would truly bother me. So don’t worry about it.”

It was only half-intended, but Dorothea was still pleased when Petra gave a surprised laugh in automatic response to the toenail idea. “That is… a lot of disgust. No, I will not eat the nails on my toes. I promise.”

Dorothea smiled. It was broad and warm, so much so she could feel it in her cheeks. “I am glad.”

They ate a dinner of ordered in pizza - fortunately Petra did not like anchovies on hers because that may have made Dorothea a liar - and began preparing for bed with relative ease. Petra made absolute sure Dorothea was comfortable on the sofa, offering more pillows if she needed them, before shutting off the lights and heading to her open bedroom.

Dorothea rolled onto her back and had been doing her usual mindless scrolling through the internet before sleep for a little while when Petra called out. “I cannot pretend to… have complete understanding, but. I know a little of what it is to be alone. In a new place.” Even though they were in separate rooms, unable to see the other’s face, something about Petra’s tone made these words feel the most intimate they had been. “I am glad to have met you, Dorothea. And if you ever need to talk about… being the alone. I am here.”

As if she had any need to hide it in the dark, Dorothea pressed the softly lit screen of her phone to her lips. She must be smiling like an absolute idiot. The whole body-tense, want to both melt and roll around on the floor type of stupid smile. “Thank you Petra. The same goes for you. If you ever need to talk, about anything at all.”

A soft laugh. Not near as sudden and loud as the one from earlier - but just as beautiful. Dorothea could not be certain, but there was also something… a little sad about it. “Good night.”

* * *

A little over a week after Dorothea had started sleeping on Petra’s sofa the two of them arrived together to the Burlesque Lounge for work and found… quite a few more cars in the tiny parking lot to the left of the building. More than there usually was before business hours. Nor was the security man, Raphael, standing by the door for some sort of private event. When Dorothea looked to Petra for an explanation she found the woman just as confused as she was.

“... Alright, that’s enough! You can rest, let’s take a look at the next group… Francine Uland, Gretchen Bower…”

The pair rounded the corner of the entrance stairs just as four dancers stepped off of the stage and four names were called as one by one others climbed up, all in dancing or workout clothes. Manuela and Alois were sitting at the largest table in direct sight line of the stage with a small set of speakers and papers before them. Once the new four were equally spaced Alois pressed a button on the speakers, and with the start of the music the four began to dance.

“Are these… auditions?” Dorothea said, so unsure, so quiet she wasn’t sure anyone but herself could hear.

But someone did. One of the group that had just exited the stage, a tall, pale man with stark, black hair turned one cold green eye on her as he passed. “There was a call for one male and one female dancer for a Burlesque stage.”

“I think you did quite well, Hubert,” said a man with soft orange hair as he stepped up. A polite grin alighted his face, “for having only just done research on what Burlesque usually entails.”

“Ferdinand, you forget just how much dance Hubert has studied. It should not take him long at all to get down the basics of something.” From a woman with long, exceedingly light hair that came up to join the pair of men. “And you are being rude on more than one account. Hubert was speaking to this woman when you interrupted.”

“She is not dressed for an audition, so what does it matter?” ‘Hubert’ said after a single once over of Dorothea. One that left him with a very unimpressed expression.

“That does not-“ The woman began, before she decided against that train of thought and just hummed lowly for some sort of internal support. She turned to face Dorothea and Petra both. “I apologize for my friends. My name is Edelgard, and this is Hubert and Ferdinand. We attend the Royal Academy, Hubert is a dance major there.”

“If you’re in school,” Dorothea started, finding her voice at least in this one on one conversation with someone halfway decent, “why would you be auditioning for a job here? The sorts of hours the dancers keep isn’t really… conducive to the schoolwork I imagine you have at the Royal Academy.”

“That would be true in most cases,” Ferdinand said, stepping in just a tad closer with a dip of his head. “I do apologize for my rudeness. I have a bit of fun teasing Hubert, sometimes too much fun. We have a new TA with some… experimental ideas. Every senior in the performing arts program is required to find a local company, a local business, what have you to work with as a part of their thesis research. Most people find something in the Royal Ballet Company or the Enbarr Symphony, but the new TA suggested trying to be a bit different. She even mentioned this place by name because she’d apparently found the posting online so… here we are. To provide moral support for Hubert here.”

“Because I would need such a thing,” Hubert huffed.

There was… an online posting for auditions. And Dorothea had heard absolutely nothing about the need. Neither had Petra by the way she put a consoling hand on her shoulder. “Perhaps there will be multiple days for the auditions-“ She started, searching for some kinder explanation.

That Hubert promptly shot down following a drink from his black, faded skull designed water bottle. Of fucking course he would. “From the single date given I would think not. Probably from an urgent need for dancers. Where did you study?”

‘ _ I choreographed my own small dances for dumb little scenes in my high school’s plays. _ ’ She could only imagine what sort of reaction that would get from the whole trio. With their impeccable clothes and attendance as seniors at the Royal Academy. There was no way she could picture that conversation going well for her, but… the music was ending on this song. Manuela was telling the dancers to stop.

And Dorothea was marching right through the four people around her and onto the stage. There had to be flames in her eyes by the way one of the girls exiting did not even bother to try and get down the stairs before Dorothea went up, only stepping aside to allow her room before quickly fleeing. Dorothea did not spare her or the others a glance when she firmly planted herself center stage.

Manuela, that had been arguing over sheets becoming steadily more messy in the spread before her and Alois, finally looked up then. “Dorothea, what are you doing?”

A deep inhale through her nose and she was tilting her chin up with the squaring of shoulders from someone ready to fight. “I am auditioning. Like I asked to months ago. Like you said you would call me for.”

And in those words Dorothea had never heard a room that size go quiet so quickly. If it weren’t for the lights on the stage she would have been able to see the cutting edge to Manuela’s eyes, to her pursed lips. “You have no experience. I am not in a place to hire someone that needs that kind of training right now.”

Dorothea had to fight the urge to stomp her foot. That was a bit too petulant child at this moment, no matter how such she wanted to. “Play the music. I know every single song here.”

A scoff. Alois was whispering to Manuela but she was not having it. “You know every single song?”

“ _ I know every. Single. Song. _ ”

As if it were some sort of fluke happening, Manuela in fact played  _ three _ songs. All of which Manuela knew. Each one. (Okay she may have gone a bit too hard in a slide on the second, but she refused to acknowledge it. The show must go on.) Once the music stopped on the third song again the entire place went still outside of Dorothea, who at least allowed herself to pant and swipe a hand at the back of her neck. Her heart pounded right between her ears so loudly that she thought maybe people were speaking and she simply could not hear it. She was too busy focusing on her nervous heartbeat and Manuela.

Finally Manuela stood and placed her hands flat on the table before her. “Dorothea. Hubert.” A pause that felt about fifty times longer than Dorothea knew it truly was, and then… “You start practicing tomorrow. Be prepared.”

Ferdinand and Edelgard clapped Hubert on the back. Manuela stood to go upstairs. Alois and Petra rushed up the stage just as Dorothea bent ever to place her hands on her knees and breathe deeply. This was happening. This was really, truly happening.

Alois got to her first and placed a big, strong hand on her shoulder with a laugh. “Well, Dorothea, you’re definitely not in Kansas anymore.” He was grinning big - proud of his joke but not as much as he looked to be of her.

As if to make up for her back being arched forward first, Dorothea threw her head back in the biggest laugh she had given in years. “Because I haven’t heard that a million times before. Or some version of it.” God was she crying? Or was it sweat? She had to wipe under her eye when she looked back to Alois and Petra. “I never thought I’d be wanting something like this so badly. Slapstick comedy, dancing lines, and saints the  _ costumes _ but…”

Ever since she had first step foot in this wild mess she had been feeling things she had never felt before, things that just would not let go. An interest in this performance style she had only heard of as the butt of jokes. She had been acting and taking voices lessons, nothing related to dancing! And yet here she was, hundreds of miles from anyone that knew of her as  _ foster kid _ Dorothea, or  _ drama club _ Dorothea, waiting tables and serving drinks. So many things about her seemed to have changed.

Petra gripped her shoulder. Dorothea returned the smile she was wearing. “Something’s just got a hold on me about this place, I guess.”


End file.
